


come undone

by neon_static



Category: Men's Basketball RPF
Genre: 5+1 Things, M/M, this is pre-trade because I refuse to acknowledge it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:40:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21737509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neon_static/pseuds/neon_static
Summary: DeMar shuts his mouth, casting his eyes down again. Kyle’s right. They both know it. He shrugs helplessly.“I know,” he admits. “But I can't not think about it. My brain won’t fucking stop. It won’t turn off. I’m so tired man.”“I-” As he stops to clear his throat, Kyle knows this is a terrible idea. Knows it’s selfish and wrong, but the words slip out anyways, he can’t seem to stop them. “I can make it stop if you want me to.”
Relationships: DeMar DeRozan/Kyle Lowry
Comments: 15
Kudos: 39





	come undone

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you’re all fans of a classic 5+1 trope. It's really just a whole lot of poorly written porn with emotional issues that are even more badly written. So, sorry in advance.
> 
> The timing of this fic takes place during the 2017-18 season. The games all really happened in that order, the scores and events of the games are true, as are the postgame interviews. However, I took some artistic license, so while the first interview mentioned did really occur, it happened in January of 2016. Forgive me for adding it despite the timeline, it seemed too good of an opportunity to pass up.
> 
> title is from Hatchie - Stay With Me

**0 Prelude**

Kyle isn’t sure when it started. At some point between being traded to the Raptors and becoming a co-captain with DeMar, Kyle had started harboring a flicker of attraction for his backcourt partner that over the years has slowly but surely grown into a roaring flame. He thinks about DeMar like that all the time, thinks about how he wants to get his hands on him, how he wants to suck bruises against the lines of DeMar’s tattoos, how he wants to know the noises DeMar makes when he’s overwhelmed, overstimulated, over the edge.

Kyle has never been with a guy before, didn’t know that might be something he would want until DeMar, but wants to learn everything about how to make it good, wants to be able to be good for DeMar. He keeps it to himself though, tries to file away his thoughts for when he’s alone, able to get a hand on himself in private. He’s a bit ashamed of it, of thinking about DeMar that way, of getting off on it and then 20 minutes later going to his hotel room to watch Rudy play in his first game with the Spurs.

He promises himself he will never act on it, will never let these intrusive thoughts get in the way of the best friendship he’s ever had. He won’t. He won’t.

**1 November 24, 2017**

The first time it happened it shouldn’t have happened at all. It was just the frustration of losing two in a row, of having to celebrate Thanksgiving on the road in some hotel restaurant instead of at home with their families. It was a strange situation, a vulnerable one, and Kyle felt the weirdness in the air before he even made his way to DeMar’s room, down the hall from his own. 

They were commiserating in DeMar’s hotel room, long after they should have been asleep. But Kyle knows that DeMar doesn’t sleep well, especially not after a loss, and he wants to keep DeMar company, to keep him from obsessively watching the game over again, picking out every mistake, every missed shot, every turnover. He shoulders so much, unwilling to share the heavy responsibility that comes from loss with the team. Kyle knows DeMar does this when Kyle goes back to his room, knows that DeMar both wants his company to distract him from his thoughts and itches for Kyle to leave so he can begin the process of digging in his heels, of shifting his psychological weight to take on the burden he refuses to share.

Kyle won’t let him do it tonight, not when he knows that DeMar was feeling shaky before they even started playing. Kyle is by no means perfect, he can hardly deal with his own emotional issues, but this is DeMar. This is Kyle’s job, that if DeMar won’t let him carry the weight of the team, he’ll keep DeMar standing, will carry DeMar.

DeMar is sitting at the foot of the bed, head in his hands when Kyle walks in. Kyle doesn’t need to knock, just pushes open the door. It’s resting on the latch, as it always is when DeMar is waiting for him. He lets it swing shut and lock behind him. DeMar is a picture of misery, slumped in dejection but tense with anxiety. He’s in one of his stupid sweatsuits looking cozy but uncomfortable in his skin, twisting his fingers together, a nervous tic, and Kyle’s eyes zero in on them. He always seems to. It’s a secret he’s determined to take to the grave, but he loves DeMar’s hands. 

A slow wave of want heats up Kyle’s body, moving over him, syrupy and hot. He knows what those hands feel like, grabbing his shoulders before a game, touching his waist as DeMar guards him during practice, he wants to press his hand against DeMar’s palm, to see the width of them, wants to feel their grip low on his body, wants to be touched where he shouldn’t. Kyle digs his fingernails into his palm to stop himself. He had managed to keep his weird attraction to DeMar under wraps thus far, it was pointless to let himself think of it. Besides, this is definitely not the time, not when DeMar is clearly not okay. He takes another step into the room, determined to focus on the task at hand.

DeMar doesn’t say anything as he enters, but Kyle knows what he’s thinking, knows about the fouls that weren’t called that could’ve put DeMar on the line, knows about the turnover in the fourth that opened the space for a scoring run that put the Pacers up by 4 and from which the Raptors never recovered. He knows about all these things, knows DeMar is dissecting the game, pulling on string after string, weaving himself a blanket of guilt that he will lie under tonight. He can see the cracks in the composure of DeMar’s face, exhaustion bruising under his eyes, and he feels tenderness well up in the cavity of his chest. He wants to swipe his thumbs against DeMar’s eyelids and shut off this train of thought. 

“You gotta stop.” Kyle says without preamble. DeMar looks up, an indignant expression on his face, opening his mouth to respond.

“You can shut up, I know exactly what you’re thinking about and you gotta stop. Those free throws wouldn’t have helped that much we were already at a six point deficit, and that turnover wasn’t your fault, you weren’t even on the floor.”

DeMar shuts his mouth, casting his eyes down again. Kyle’s right. They both know it. He shrugs helplessly.

“I know,” he admits. “But I can't not think about it. My brain won’t fucking stop. It won’t turn off. I’m so tired man.”

Kyle understands the statement as a confession. DeMar rarely admits what he thinks are failings. He just sets his shoulders, bags weighing down his eyes, and pushes forward. But here he is, admitting to Kyle that he feels weak, that he is tired, that he needs to lean on Kyle so that he can rest, just for a moment, to share the burden he carries all the time. 

DeMar scrubs at his face with his hands, pressing his palms into his eyes, his shoulders high and tense. Kyle walks up to him, lays his hand heavy on the back of DeMar’s neck and squeezes. He’s willing to help, wants to help, but he isn’t sure how. DeMar sighs, leaning his forehead against Kyle’s stomach, seeking out contact.

“I-” As he stops to clear his throat, Kyle knows this is a terrible idea. Knows it’s selfish and wrong, but the words slip out anyways, he can’t seem to stop them. “I can make it stop if you want me to.”

DeMar lifts his head off of Kyle just enough to gaze up at him. Kyle’s breath catches at the way DeMar looks, his eyes warm through his lashes, Kyle’s hand on the back of his neck, staring up at Kyle from Kyle’s waistline. He looks innocent and Kyle’s stomach twists at the filthy image his mind conjures up. DeMar’s brow furrows, confusion clear on his face, but he nods up at Kyle, trusting and open. 

Kyle gives his neck one firm squeeze and tells DeMar to sit against the headboard. DeMar complies, and Kyle follows him so they’re next to each other, Kyle sitting on DeMar’s right side, turned towards him. Kyle can’t afford himself time to overthink this. He committed, the moment DeMar looked at him like that, to following this through. He doesn’t want to stop, knows he should, but if DeMar can admit that he is tired then Kyle can too, and he’s too tired to fight this anymore, the desire he feels for DeMar. He just wants to put his hands on DeMar’s skin with purpose and make him shiver, make him gasp, make him come. 

Kyle tugs at the hem of DeMar’s shirt until he gets the hint and slips it over his head. Kyle’s eyes trace the hard planes of DeMar’s chest, up to his face where understanding is beginning to trickle into DeMar’s eyes. Kyle’s throat is dry, he places one hand on DeMar’s powerful thigh and slowly leans into DeMar’s space, waiting for a rejection that doesn’t come, pausing before their lips touch. He can feel DeMar’s breaths, soft on his face. DeMar’s tongue comes out and wets his lips quickly. Kyle takes this is the invitation that it is and bridges the gap, their mouths connecting, plush and gentle. 

It’s hard for Kyle to describe the kiss later, it’s not electric or shocking, it's consuming in a way that Kyle has never experienced. It feels like he’s being slowly submerged in the ocean, swells of warm water drifting him along, cresting over his body and pulling him under every time DeMar moves his lips, full and soft over Kyle’s. He’s drowning in it, his fingertips tracing the hard curve of DeMar’s cheekbone cautiously.

When they separate, DeMar’s eyelashes are fluttering and his chest is heaving. Kyle is entranced, eyes tracing over DeMar’s face, soaking it in, this reaction to _Kyle’s_ kisses. He lays his hand over DeMar’s heart, feeling the rapid beat under his fingertips. DeMar blinks at him heavily, licks his lips again, leaning in for another kiss, and then another and another. Kyle doesn’t know how long it’s been the next time they pull apart for air, it feels like forever and not enough, but he can no longer ignore the way his body has reacted to their kisses. He is hard in his sweats and with a jolt he realizes that DeMar is too. 

DeMar’s hips are shifting infinitesimally, instinctually seeking some sort of relief. Kyle wants to provide it. He reaches out and grasps the waistband of DeMar’s sweats. He waits for DeMar to nod at him before he pulls them down, over the swell of DeMar’s ass and down his thighs. DeMar’s dick is starkly outlined in the tight fabric of his boxer briefs. Kyle wants so badly, to touch, to taste. He does neither, not sure if he’s allowed. He doesn’t want to cross any more boundaries than he already has. Instead he just lets himself look, lets his desire rush over him, heady and hot. DeMar shifts impatiently and Kyle shakes himself out of his reverie, pulls the boxers down to join his sweats, and suddenly he’s looking at DeMar laid out on the bed, one fist grasping the sheets tightly, his dick hard and dripping on his tattooed abdomen. Kyle can’t help the noise that escapes from him. It’s pained, wanting. DeMar’s fist clenches the sheets tighter and his head falls back against the headboard.

Kyle is unsure how he’s supposed to do this. He’s never touched another man like this before. It’s a fact he’s not sure if he wants DeMar to know or not. Instead of speaking he just goes for it, grasping DeMar’s cock firmly. DeMar gasps, and then lets out a small whimper as Kyle swipes his thumb over the head, gathering the moisture there to ease the friction through Kyle’s fist. DeMar brings his hand up to bite on his hand, blocking the sounds he can’t help making. The walls of the hotel are thin, they can hear the muffled sounds of whatever action movie Serge is watching in the next room. Neither of them want to advertise what’s going on here so DeMar is clearly trying to be quiet. The small, uncontrollable twitches of DeMar’s face as he tries to contain himself make Kyle’s heart ache. He is so unreserved, falling apart in Kyle’s hands. The gravity of the moment is not lost on Kyle, he knows few people have seen DeMar like this, knows how lucky he is to be one of them.

Kyle jerks him off slowly, determined to make it last, to make sure DeMar gets lost in the feeling of it, gets out of his head for once. He twists his hand, thumb tracing along the vein running along DeMar’s dick, thumbing at the slit, doing what he knows feels good to him and hoping it translates. The way DeMar is biting at his hand, Kyle thinks it might be. 

“C’mon Deebo,” he whispers, voice rough. “Let go.”

DeMar moans, it catches in the back of his throat, comes out broken. His dick pulses, hot in Kyle’s hand, and the line of his body goes hard before it relaxes, as DeMar spurts onto Kyle’s skin. Kyle watches DeMar’s orgasm unfold on his face, watches him fall into the waves of pleasure, watches them overwhelm him and then slowly recede. DeMar’s eyes open, liquid and hazy. He looks at Kyle, the right side of his mouth quirking into a small, satisfied smile. He pulls Kyle down to lean against the headboard, gets his hand inside Kyle’s sweats, pulls out his dick and then pulls him off, no nonsense, quick and smooth. Kyle comes so hard he sees stars inside his eyelids for a full four minutes.

They lay there, a moment suspended, then DeMar rolls over, wiping his hand on the sheets and pulling up his pants before turning back over and resting his head against Kyle’s shoulder.

“Thank you.” he mouths into Kyle’s skin. Kyle hums, knocks the side of his head gently against the top of DeMar’s. It is his last peaceful moment before the past 20 minutes catches up to him. He just had sex with his best friend. He had _sex._ With _DeMar._ And now DeMar knows the secret he’s been harboring, this dark part of Kyle that has been lusting after his best friend for years. He’s scared, he’s been so scared of this, of losing everything, and now he pulled the trigger on himself. He can’t face the wreckage of this when DeMar wakes up and remembers everything. He’s gotta get out, gotta get back to his own room where he can have this meltdown alone, but he’s scared to leave DeMar, especially the way he was when Kyle arrived. He lays, frozen in panic as DeMar nods off, curled up against Kyle’s side.

Kyle leaves when DeMar’s breaths slow and even out. He takes one painful moment to gaze down at DeMar’s face, the lines of anxiety finally smoothed out in sleep. Kyle has seen DeMar in many ways, has watched him focused, laughing, anxious, angry, but rarely like this, in a deep sleep, face lax like it never is when he’s awake. DeMar always has his guard up, is always watching his back, remnants from growing up in Compton. Lines in DeMar’s face that Kyle had never even known were there have smoothed out and relaxed. He looks soft. Kyle stops himself before his outstretched fingertips can brush across the hard line of DeMar’s cheekbone. He sucks in a harsh breath, closes his eyes against the image, and gets out of bed. He hears DeMar shift in his sleep behind him, curling into the warm spot Kyle left when he got up. He can’t look back.

The door latching with a quiet click behind him makes him flinch. It sounds final, sounds like the end. He quickens his steps, not slowing until he’s down the hall, into his room, and in his own bathroom, splashing water on his face. He looks at his reflection, eyes bloodshot, water droplets tracing down his face like tears.

“What have you done?” He asks himself.

He’s so ashamed, horrified that he acted on the spark of desire he holds for his best friend, sick that he did it while DeMar was vulnerable. He took advantage of DeMar when his defenses were down, when he craved comfort, and Kyle had pressed himself upon him under the guise of support and reassurance. Mortification churns in his stomach, acidic and corrosive as it rushes into his mouth. He has to drop to his knees, bracing himself against the toilet as he retches into the bowl, shame burning hot in his throat, the bitter taste of it lingering long after he brushes his teeth and falls into a fitful sleep. 

He dreams but he can’t remember them when he wakes up. They leave him feeling anxious, skin prickling uncomfortably. All he remembers is echoing laughter, caustic, mocking. He’s sweating heavily by the time he wakes.

They don’t talk about it. DeMar tries, the next morning after he wakes up alone, pulling Kyle to the side in the lobby as the team gets ready to leave the hotel. Kyle feels trapped and unsure, quickly making excuses - Coach Casey needs to speak with him - and abruptly turning on his heel, walking away from DeMar. He feels nauseated when he thinks about it, knows DeMar must feel violated and terrible but he can’t own up to it, can’t have that discussion, and he feels all the worse knowing with his whole heart that he is a coward for it.

They board the bus, he sits in his usual seat, in the back, in the row across from DeMar. They usually sit turned inwards towards each other so that Kyle can see DeMar’s expressions when he gets the stupid videos Kyle dms him on Instagram, but Kyle doesn’t think he can look at DeMar right now, so he turns so he’s facing the window, looking out at the sun shining through. He hates the weather today, feels cold and dark in his chest, is everything the weather isn't. He feels like its taunting him and then feels stupid at how cliche that is. 

He hits the back of his head against the back of the seat, a headache beginning to build in his temples. He wouldn’t be surprised if DeMar refuses to sit near him anymore. _Fuck._ He’s ruined this, he’s ruined everything, after years of keeping this feeling in check, of hiding his heavy gazes and swallowing back the thick lump of want that sometimes threatens to choke him when DeMar answers the door, rumpled and sleepy from napping on the couch, his shirt riding up as he stretches...Kyle cuts off his train of thought angrily, he can’t afford to think like this anymore. Not after the damage he’s done.

DeMar boards the bus and walks to his seat without hesitation. Kyle feels the warmth of him as he brushes past, shorts lightly grazing Kyle’s elbow. Somehow it makes Kyle want to cry. He closes his eyes and turns up his music instead, feeling the rumbling of the bus underneath him.

Kyle’s phone buzzes in his hand and he swipes open the notification from Instagram, heart in his throat at the username. It’s a dm from DeMar. When he clicks on it, it’s a video of a dog licking a sliding glass door. Kyle snorts before he can stop himself. DeMar never ceases to surprise him, because of all things it could’ve been, a dog video was the last thing Kyle expected. He glances quickly over at DeMar who is looking down at his phone with the ghost of a smile on his face. Kyle is stunned. Maybe he hasn’t ruined this, this video an olive branch that Kyle should’ve given. DeMar has every right to be angry, sick, hateful and yet, here he is, reaching his hand back out to Kyle when he doesn’t deserve it, like he always does. He is in awe of the man DeMar is. Better than Kyle, Kyle has always known that. Kyle’s heart swells in his chest. It beats out a rhythm that sounds like hope.

It takes about a week for things to go back to normal. Kyle keeps finding DeMar looking at him. He can’t remember if it was normal before they slept together, if he didn’t just catch DeMar’s eye and pull a face to make DeMar smile, or if this is new territory. He knows DeMar’s eyes didn’t look like they do now though, swirling with confusion. But after a few days they fall back into their easy banter and press shenanigans, DeMar smacking the hat off Kyle’s head as he walks by, Kyle crowding up behind DeMar and poking at him while he tries to give his postgame interview.

Kyle is glad its over, is grateful that his momentary lapse in judgement hasn’t cost him his closest friendship. He promises himself he will never lose control again.

**2 January 1, 2018**

Kyle’s promise only lasts so long, now that he has a taste of DeMar the way he wants him. They were supposed to forget about it, pretend that the memory didn’t exist, even though every time Kyle got a hand on himself it played on a loop in his brain. DeMar, thick and hard in his hand. Silent, biting his lip so that Serge wouldn’t hear him through the thin hotel wall, and squeezing his eyes shut as he spills hot all over Kyle’s fist. 

Like he said, ignoring it. He makes it a resolution, a promise for the new year. He’s going to finally get over this, move past it. It’s out of his system now, he can move on with his life. 

But then DeMar goes and drops 52 points and he’s shining, the night belongs to him and everyone knows it. He’s radiant, smiling so bright it’s hard to look directly at him. He’s effortless and Kyle feels light headed looking at him. And then there’s the way he draped himself over Kyle during his postgame interview, hugging him from the back, the hard planes of body hot and sweaty against Kyle. Kyle has to tamp down his body’s reaction to shiver, the combination of DeMar so close to him and the adrenaline still pulsing through their veins at the thrill of a game like that, of starting off the year on such a high. DeMar lets him finish speaking, just rocking them back and forth before gently pulling him back to the locker room. They head down the tunnel still wrapped up in each other and Kyle can’t help the joyous laugh that keeps bubbling up in him. He’s _proud._ He almost can’t believe he got to be a part of a night like that.

At the door to the locker room they seperate, DeMar getting pulled away by the medics, wanting to check out the hamstring that had been acting up for the past week. Kyle hits the showers and is fully dressed, giving another interview by the time DeMar makes it back to the locker room. He daps up the rest of the team as they walk past him out the door on their way home, shouting their congratulations. DeMar’s eyes find Kyle’s through the crowd around him and grins. Kyle rolls his eyes at him, and points toward the showers.

“Shower so we can go eat, Bigshot.” DeMar laughs and slings a towel over his shoulder, for once not disputing the nickname as he exits.

Kyle takes his time getting ready, drags his feet packing his bags, even starts cleaning his locker before remembering that he doesn’t need an excuse to wait for his best friend and sits heavily on his chair until DeMar gets out of the shower. He pulls out his phone and starts scrolling through Instagram, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth at all the comments about DeMar’s franchise record. 

He feels a bit strange, there’s a low thrumming itch under his skin, but he figures he’s still hyped off the game, adrenaline still rushing through his bloodstream. He feels achy. He’s not sure what he wants really, just that he’s desperate to be in DeMar’s company tonight, to celebrate him the way he deserves to be celebrated.

He looks up from his phone when he hears DeMar step into the locker room. His suggestion about where to go to dinner dies on his lips.

DeMar is standing in front of him, freshly showered, a towel slung low around his hips, shining like Adonis. Kyle watches a slow drip of water slide down from DeMar’s collarbone, over his chest, traverse the long stretch of skin of his torso and slip down into the towel. Kyle’s mouth goes dry. He wants to lick the moisture off DeMar’s stomach.

“Kyle!” He snaps his head up to look at DeMar who is starting to laugh. “I asked where you wanna go for dinner tonight. You okay man? You didn’t get hit on the head or nothing did you?”

Kyle can’t remember how exactly he’s supposed to answer. He just blinks dumbly back up at his best friend.

DeMar’s smile slides off his face. “No forreal, you okay?”

Kyle shakes his head. “I- I dunno I just..”

And he looks at DeMar who is looking back at Kyle and he is so humble and so fucking beautiful and so damn good at basketball. He’s standing there, glistening like he’s not of this earth, like he’s a god, and all Kyle can think is that he wants to sink to his knees and worship DeMar. So he does.

Suddenly Kyle’s knees are on the floor and his hands are on the towel and he tugs it away and finally, finally he sees all of DeMar. His dick is resting soft and heavy between his thighs and god he’s beautiful.

DeMar is frozen in surprise, his eyes wide and his mouth half open.

Kyle presses his thumbs in the dips of DeMar’s hips. He looks up shyly but full of desperation.  
“Please” he says. “Please let me.”

DeMar swallows hard, and his cock jumps. Kyle moans hungrily, he knows he should feel ashamed of his reaction, of how badly he wants it, knows he’ll be mortified about the way he’s acting later, but can’t bring himself to care. Not when DeMar is looking down at him, not when Kyle’s knees are rubbing against the rough carpet and he’s so close to having DeMar how he wants him.

“Kyle,” DeMar whispers huskily, “Kyle what-? I thought you didn’t want this.”

Kyle shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut, he can’t even begin to comprehend that sentence. To not want DeMar? Impossible. “I want you every moment of every day,” he thinks. Wishes he could say it, but he knows that everything will crumble if he speaks so he swallows the words down, although it is the truest thought he has ever had. The words cut his throat on the way down and sit heavy in his stomach.

“DeMar please.” Kyle says this instead, the words still pure and true, but without his heart within them. “I- I wanna taste you.” He buries his face in the crease of DeMar’s thigh as he speaks, hiding the heat of blood rushing to his cheeks at the words. He mouths at the sharp v of DeMar’s hips, makes DeMar shiver. The reaction feels like a victory.

He’s pleading in his head now, silently praying that DeMar won’t question what this is because Kyle doesn’t have an answer. And some god must be looking over him because without another word, a hand comes to rest on his head and then firmly grip his hair as DeMar guides Kyle’s mouth to his hardening dick.

Kyle moans and sucks DeMar into his mouth. It is sloppy and messy and Christ, it’s perfect. Kyle doesn’t think he’s ever been so turned on in his life, DeMar’s scent is all around him, taste heavy in his mouth, the delicious press of DeMar’s cock against his tongue and the back of his throat.

DeMar’s fingers flex in Kyle’s hair and there is a muffled thud as DeMar’s head hits the wall. He keeps a slow litany of muttered curses that wash down Kyle’s back like warm honey. He’s never heard DeMar like this before, knows he never will again, so he soaks up every one while he can, preens under the attention, pushes himself further down on DeMar’s dick.

“Oh fuck Kyle...shit, you’re so good...fuck.”

He’s so turned on he’s dizzy with it. He loves this. Loves DeMar holding him down, loves how his jaw aches and his throat constricts over the thick length of DeMar.

He keeps bobbing his head, swirling his tongue around the tip and hollowing his cheeks as he sucks on as much of DeMar as he can fit. He’s never done this before, doesn’t know if he’s doing it right. Though DeMar seems to like it, still letting out stifled curses.

Kyle pulls up to dip his tongue in the slit at the top of DeMar’s dick and looks up at DeMar as he slowly sinks back down. DeMar is looking back at him intensely, his eyes are burning into Kyle, heating him up from the inside out. He moves his hand to rest around Kyle’s throat, feeling his dick as it slides down.

The pressure and weight of DeMar’s hand sends a shock through Kyle. DeMar has all the power, could flex his fingers and cut off Kyle’s air supply. Could do anything he wants. And Kyle would let him. He knows it like one knows an intrinsic truth. Knows it like he knows that the sky is blue, like he knows the feel of a basketball in his hands. If DeMar wanted to ruin him, Kyle would do nothing to stop him.

He reaches down into his waistband and grasps his own dick. With just a few tugs he groans around the dick in his mouth and squeezes his eyes shut as he comes.

DeMar shudders at the vibration and chokes out “I’m gonna come.”

DeMar tries to pull him off with a tug on his hair but Kyle just doubles down and sucks hard. DeMar spills into Kyle’s mouth and over his lips.

DeMar slumps back against the wall, and looks at Kyle incredulously as his cock slips wetly out of Kyle’s mouth.

“Why are you so good at that? Jesus, Kyle.”

Kyle shrugs and licks the last shining droplets of come from his lips.

“Dunno I guess I just picked it up.” He gets up off the ground and turns toward his locker. DeMar grabs his hand and pulls him in.

“Wait, what about you?”

“This isn’t about me,” Kyle tries to shake him off , “this was about you.”

“Well now I’m making it about you.” DeMar says and slips his hand into the waistband of Kyle’s pants. He pulls it out and looks at it, glistening with pearly liquid.

“You came?”

Kyle nods jerkily.

“But you barely touched yourself. Your hands were on me.”

Kyle nods again.

“You came from sucking me off?”

Kyle doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. The evidence is there on DeMar’s hand. It’s insanely erotic, looking at his come shining on DeMar’s fingers. He can’t stop looking at it. DeMar lifts his dirtied hand to Kyle’s lips and watches, mouth parted and eyes dark, as Kyle licks every drop of his own release from DeMar’s hand.

They lock eyes as Kyle sucks the last of DeMar’s fingers clean. DeMar’s chest is heaving and his gaze is heavy. It’s more heated than Kyle can describe. He shivers at how good it feels, to have DeMar want him like this.

But this isn’t Kyle’s life. He doesn’t get the guy, doesn’t win the trophy, doesn’t confess his adoration and find the happy ending. He knows that this cannot end well, and he knows that he has done this damage to himself. He doesn’t know how to stay and watch DeMar walk away from him. So he walks away first.

He gives his lips one last lick and then wiggles out of DeMar’s hold with a practiced maneuver that he has perfected from years of practice of escaping DeMar’s grips on him.

“Dinner’s on me” he says, turning to his locker and quickly throwing on a new pair of underwear and pants and stuffing the dirtied clothes into his locker. He knows he’s a masochist, knows he will find the ruined shorts in a couple of days and will have to face what he has done here. Will have to deal with the physical manifestation of his heart wrenching desire for his teammate and best friend. For now though, he can shut his locker and ignore the way his muscles are still weak from the remnants of his orgasm. He can make a joke to smooth it over, to signal to DeMar that he should let it go. He’s still sticky, not waiting around to clean himself up fully. Instead he looks over his shoulder at DeMar, still leaning heavily against the wall, seemingly unconcerned with his naked body completely on display. He reminds Kyle of a sculpture he saw in a textbook in high school, strength and grace formed from marble. But DeMar is not stone, he is pure life, blood zinging through his veins, bursting with it. The image makes Kyle’s breath catch. He shoots DeMar a crooked smile to keep himself from inexplicably crying.

“Hurry up MVP. I’m hungry,” before whirling out of the locker room. He doesn’t look back. 

Kyle thinks he should be concerned about how easy it was for everything to go back to normal, but then again, everything with DeMar had always been easy.

After Kyle had walked out of the locker room he made a beeline for his car, getting in and leaning his head against the steering wheel, allowing himself a moment of panic before he had to pull himself together and act unruffled. DeMar had finally finished getting dressed and had made his way to the parking lot where Kyle was nervously waiting in the car, heat blasting against the January cold. DeMar threw his bag in the trunk and climbed into the front seat, bluetooth immediately connecting to the car speakers.

The car ride was quiet, but not oppressively so, DeMar queuing up music and fiddling with the temperature knobs. This aura seemed to surround him, making him look soft and glowy as he stared out the window, mouthing along to the song playing quietly in the background. Kyle had to grip the steering wheel tightly to ground himself so that he wouldn’t distractedly run off the road.

Even dinner was fine. They go to their usual spot, get a booth and order quickly, without having to look at the menu. Kyle spends the entirety of the meal trying to make DeMar break his humble exterior and admit he’s the greatest scoring guard in the league. DeMar doesn’t, just shaking his head demurely and smiling down at his pasta like he knows a secret that Kyle doesn’t. It would be infuriating but Kyle is sure that DeMar knows many things that Kyle doesn’t, plus he looks so goddamn _handsome_ with that shy smile, Kyle cuts himself some slack for not being in control of his full range of emotions when faced with such an image.

So dinner goes well, even if DeMar is slightly more quiet than usual, and Kyle’s anxious heart rate eventually returned to its slow thud, hope burgeoning in his chest that this thing they’re doing, this thing where Kyle throws himself desperately at DeMar isn’t going to destroy their friendship. 

They stay out much too late, until the first day of the new year has gone. The streets are empty as they drive home, conversation stilted but the silence isn’t oppressive, it just exists as it is, settling into the spaces between Kyle and DeMar, softening the edges of the new form their relationship is taking. Kyle pulls up to DeMar’s door, car idling in the driveway. He looks at DeMar, He tells DeMar he’ll pick him up for their recovery session in the afternoon. DeMar nods, reaching for the door handle, but stopping and looking down at his hands as he opens his mouth to speak. Kyle waits with bated breath, but DeMar closes his mouth without another sound and shakes his head slightly. He looks at Kyle, eyes tired, the lines in his face deep with an exhaustion that Kyle had never seen. DeMar looks run down, the glow from his spectacular night receding swiftly.

“Night Kyle.” he smiles warmly, despite his weariness. Kyle is filled suddenly with a bone deep yearning to reach out and pull DeMar into him. He wants to hold DeMar to his chest, bend over him, press his head into the safety of Kyle’s ribcage, lull him with the steady beating of his heart. The feeling thickens in his throat, and for a breath he can’t speak.

“Night Champ.” The grin that DeMar flashes as he gets out of the car is bright and beautiful. There is a sharp feeling of loss as he exits that makes Kyle roll down his window and call out to DeMar as he walks slowly to his door.

“Hey Deebo!” DeMar turns back to look at the car, one eyebrow raised questioningly. “I’m proud of you. Not just tonight.” DeMar’s face is unreadable in the shadows cast by the porch light.

“I know,” he says, huskily. Kyle nods, then rolls up his window and drives away, leaving DeMar in the driveway, lit up strangely by the receding taillights of the car. 

That night Kyle sleeps heavily, exhausted from the game, but he dreams vividly. There’s a faceless defender on a fast break down the court and Kyle knows that if he makes this basket, the game is over. He times it perfectly, stepping up as the opposing player crashes into him hard. Suddenly he’s on the ground, head a little fuzzy, trying desperately to catch his breath. He keeps trying to reach out his hands for DeMar to help him up, but DeMar doesn’t see him, and Kyle can’t call out, the air still not coming back into his lungs. DeMar has his back turned, standing at the halfway line, hands on his hips. Kyle is panicking, and DeMar still won’t look at him. 

He wakes up feeling unsettled. He texts DeMar as soon as he wakes up, he’s not sure what he’s looking for. He stares at his phone until the three dots appear, DeMar composing whatever stupid response he is about to send back. The sight of it makes him close his eyes in relief. He doesn’t know why.

It's not until over a week later, when they’re back in Toronto after a road trip, that Kyle finds the ruined shorts in his locker. He holds them in his hand, unsure, the full memory of that night hits him hard, right in the chest. He grabs the door of his locker with one hand, keeping himself upright against the onslaught of memory. He hears a cut off sound on his left, and looks over to see DeMar looking at his hand, recognition sparking in them as he takes in what Kyle is holding. They stare at each other for a moment, both unmoving. Kyle swallows his fear, steels himself against it, and winks. He’s desperate for this to be less intense than it is, can’t stand the idea of DeMar knowing how badly Kyle wants him, the way he yearns for him, every moment of every day. He winks to make it casual, nonchalant. DeMar shoots a small smile back and sits heavily in the chair in front of his locker, pulling his hood up and putting his headphones in. He closes his eyes and sinks down into the seat. Kyle shoves the shorts into the bottom of his bag and turns back to the mess in his locker, he’ll deal with it later.

**3 February 5, 2018**

If it wasn’t supposed to happen the second time then it definitely shouldn’t have happened the third. 

DeMar and Kyle are each other’s defensive assignments during practice, Coach Casey wanting them to test each other. Predictably, it devolves quickly. Kyle can’t help but push up against DeMar, too much contact for basketball but still not as much as he wants, and Kyle doesn’t know where the line is anymore. He wraps both arms around DeMar’s waist and tugs, swatting at the ball as DeMar laughs and pushes back against Kyle, trying to create some space. An assistant coach calls the foul, and DeMar steps to the line. The shots swish through the basket, easy, arcing beautifully.

The next possession Kyle gets the ball, dribbles it at the top of the key, pausing for a moment to let his team set up for the play. DeMar takes advantage of the decrease in pace, rushing into Kyle’s space, pressing up against him. He’s big, and Kyle’s line of sight is taken up entirely by the broadness of DeMar’s shoulders. He’s looking for an opening to pass, to move the play along, but he doesn’t honestly want to move, content to be trapped against the heat of DeMar’s body. DeMar keeps bumping him with his hip and Kyle gets the giggles as DeMar gets more and more aggressive, laughing against Kyle’s neck until he grabs Kyle and fully tackles him to the ground. Kyle chucks the ball in the general direction of Pascal and the play continues around them as DeMar and Kyle roll around on the court. 

They wrestle for a moment, DeMar letting Kyle overpower him and pin him down, Kyle crows in victory even though they both know DeMar allowed Kyle his position. DeMar bucks his hips up and flips Kyle so quickly he goes breathless with surprise. Before Kyle can blink he’s under DeMar, arms pinned above his head, one of DeMar’s hands pressing them firmly but gently to the floor, his legs bracketing Kyle’s hips as he pushes his weight into Kyle, keeping him down. 

Kyle lets out a shocked laugh, biting down on his bottom lip. DeMar’s gaze flickers to Kyle’s mouth, eyes going dark. He swallows hard before he gets up, reaching down to pull Kyle up and into his hard chest. Kyle catches himself with one hand against DeMar’s abdomen. He’s stupidly grateful for the thin fabric of DeMar’s sweat soaked shirt covering DeMar’s skin. Even so, his fingers feel electric at the touch. He clenches his hand into a fist as they turn to return to the scrimmage. The whole situation only lasted a moment, not even a full minute passing between when they landed on the court and when they stood up, but it felt like an eternity. Kyle’s head is swimming, DeMar’s gaze all he can think about. It was the same way he looked down at Kyle, on his knees in front of him before Kyle made him come. It was hungry, lustful. He’s not sure how he’s supposed to deal with that.

The assistant coach lifts an unimpressed eyebrow at the pair of them, and calls another foul, this time on DeMar. Kyle steps to the line. He misses the first by a mile and gets lucky on the second, saved by the rim as it bounces in, an ugly shot. He shakes himself, determined to snap out of it. When he looks up, he locks eyes with DeMar who is watching him with a glint in his eye. He winks, cheeky, and hustles into position, leaving Kyle gaping after him.

After practice, DeMar insists on shooting around for a while. Kyle is DeMar’s ride so he hangs out too. At first they go back and forth, playing HORSE, before Kyle gets tired and calls it a day. He sits on the court, spinning a ball in his hands and watching DeMar put up shot after shot, smooth and steady, the satisfying bounce of the ball against the hardwood and the swish through the net the only sounds in the gym. Everyone has gone home, just DeMar and Kyle in the entire facility. Eventually Kyle gets hungry and chucks the ball in his hands at DeMar’s head as he gets up.

“I’m gonna shower so we can eat.” he says, laughing at DeMar’s stream of profanities as the ball hits him on the shoulder. “Hurry up.” He turns to walk out of the gym.

The sound of dribbling behind Kyle doesn’t stop, and he rolls his eyes as he pulls his sweaty shirt over his head. DeMar’s next shot clangs, loud and jarring, off the rim.

“That’s a sign that we should leave Deebo!” Kyle yells over his shoulder. DeMar resolutely ignores him and starts dribbling again. Kyle laughs and continues to the locker room. He strips down before realizing that he forgot his soap in his other gym bag. He opens DeMar’s locker and grabs what he needs before he heads back to the shower and turns the water on. The heat feels good on his back, soothing the old ache of injury that had started up again. He’s almost finished when he hears DeMar enter the locker room. 

“Kyle!” DeMar yells, “did you take my shower stuff.”

“Yeah” Kyle shouts back over the sound of the spray. 

“What the fuck man.” DeMar’s voice getting louder as he approaches, “stop taking my shit.” 

DeMar turns the water on in the stall next to Kyle.

“Hand it to me when you’re done.” he says. 

Kyle lets the water run over his face for a moment, considering, before turning off the shower and stepping out. DeMar’s heated look earlier that evening keeps running through his head, his eyes had been deep and powerful, they had left Kyle wanting. DeMar had let him the last two times, had looked at him like that today. He knows he shouldn’t but that look ignited the spark of desire that he always carries for DeMar and now he thinks maybe, maybe he could ask for it again.

He doesn’t put on a towel, just steps out holding the bottle, and pushes open the swinging door to the shower. It creaks on its hinges, alerting DeMar to Kyle’s presence. He raises his head from where it was bent away from the water and looks over at Kyle who gestures feebly with the body wash even as his eyes run greedily over DeMar’s body, letting himself look in a way he never allows himself to in this space. He has seen DeMar naked a thousand times in the locker room, has showered next to him in the communal showers at away games, but had always kept his eyes averted. Now though, now that he had seen DeMar come, had heard him moan, it was hard to justify keeping his eyes away.

DeMar is looking back unabashedly, which makes Kyle’s breath catch in amazement. DeMar’s eyes tracing over Kyle, dark and hot like they were hours ago.

“Deebo. I want-” Kyle says, voice already shaky. He breaks off, not even sure what exactly he’s asking for.  
DeMar swallows hard.

“What do you want?” he replies, voice deep and low.

Kyle shakes his head, not knowing how to ask.

“What is it you want Kyle?” DeMar asks again, eyes still burning into Kyle.

“I wanna,” he licks his lips, throat dry. “I wanna make you come.” He admits it, slightly shamefaced, because he knows it's not something he should want. Not from DeMar, his teammate, his best friend. He stands stock still, afraid to breathe, terrified of rejection.

DeMar steps back, making room for Kyle under the spray.

“Do it then.” he says, quirking one eyebrow. Kyle is slightly dumbfounded and insanely turned on. He did not expect this from DeMar. Quiet, reserved, goofy DeMar, telling him what to do, his presence big and commanding in the small shower cubicle. This was a version of DeMar that only appeared in flashes, and only on the court. He sounded strong, demanding, dangerous. Kyle has the distinct feeling he is playing with fire followed immediately with the overwhelming conviction he is going to get burned.

Kyle lurches forward, pressing into DeMar’s space, the body wash bottle dropping with a clatter onto the floor as he reaches up to run his hands over DeMar’s chest. DeMar grabs Kyle’s neck firmly, tilting his head up for a kiss. DeMar kisses with focus, intense and consuming and Kyle goes pliant against DeMar, lithe and malleable as DeMar pulls him in closer. Their bodies press fully together, skin slick. It's the first time Kyle has felt all of DeMar against him like this, the first time they have both been unclothed at the same time during sex. It shouldn't matter but somehow it does, Kyle feeling vulnerable and nervous.

DeMar is hard against Kyle’s stomach and Kyle knows he is too, pressing, insistent at DeMar’s thigh. 

“DeMar,” Kyle whispers against DeMar’s lips between kisses, “please.”

“Please what?” DeMar responds, then slips his tongue in Kyle’s mouth again before he can answer. 

Kyle rolls his hips into DeMar’s thigh, a moan wrenched out of him as he gets some pressure against his dick. DeMar ignores the hint. He pulls back to nip at Kyle’s lip and tighten the hand he has around Kyle’s throat. Kyle goes even more soft at the pressure, leaning into DeMar and making them sway, off balanced. DeMar puts a hand on Kyle’s hip to steady them both, then nudges Kyle’s head up to look directly in his eyes. 

“You have to tell me what you’re asking for Kyle.” His voice is low and slow, speaking every word deliberately. Kyle’s eyelashes flutter as he struggles to keep his gaze locked with DeMar’s. 

“I don’t know.” Kyle gasps out, “I want anything, anything you can give, just please.” He rolls his hips up against DeMar again. The hand on Kyle’s hip tightens and pushes back, preventing Kyle from moving against DeMar. Kyle whines high in frustration.

DeMar chuckles, “I thought you wanted to make me come.”

“I do!” Kyle’s eyes go wide and ernest.

“Then be good for me.” DeMar says, kissing Kyle again. Kyle nods, wanting to get DeMar off, to be good for him. DeMar kisses Kyle one last time before he turns Kyle around to face the wall. Kyle puts his hands up against the shower wall, bracing himself on his forearms as DeMar plasters himself against Kyle’s back, dropping open-mouthed kisses to the top of Kyle’s spine. He’s mouthing something along the ridge of Kyle’s back, but he can’t make it out over the sound of the showerhead. DeMar grabs Kyle’s ass, squeezing it in his hands. Kyle’s head drops to rest on the wall, overwhelmed, as DeMar lets go of Kyle to reach for the discarded bottle of body wash. He pops the top with a click and drizzles the soap on Kyle’s ass, running his hands over the skin, squeezing, making Kyle bite his hand to muffle the sounds DeMar is dragging out of him. It feels so good, just DeMar’s hands on him like this.

DeMar presses his dick against Kyle’s ass and begins to grind against him, rubbing himself off against the swell of Kyle’s butt, the lather from the soap making the glide sweet, the friction that much better. DeMar’s forehead is pressed against the back of Kyle’s neck and he’s panting, heady with it.

“God, your ass Kyle. Shit.” He moans, the sound of it making Kyle’s hips jerk forward, seeking relief on his aching cock. DeMar reaches around and takes Kyle’s dick in his hand, his grip slick from the remnants of soap. Kyle inhales sharply, chokes on it, bites at the flesh of his arm to control himself, the spark of pain grounding him.

DeMar begins to stroke him as he rolls his hips against Kyle. He’s making choked off noises in Kyle’s ear, one hand around Kyle’s dick, the other on Kyle’s hip, fingers digging into the skin, clearly trying to anchor himself. Kyle is lost in it, DeMar’s dick is sliding over his rim every few thrusts and every time it sends spasms of sensations through his body. He’s moaning continuously, he can’t stop it.

Kyle can feel when DeMar comes, his body tensing and releasing, hot and sticky on Kyle’s lower back. He slumps onto Kyle, trusting him to hold both their weight up until DeMar can find his balance again. Kyle reaches down to finish himself off, but DeMar swats his hand away and straightens up, turning Kyle back around to face him. Kyle leans up for a kiss, which DeMar provides quickly before dropping to his knees.

Kyle is simultaneously shocked and frantic, trying to pull DeMar back to his feet because he never expected this from Deebo, this is _DeMar DeRozan_, he shouldn’t be on his knees for _anybody_ let alone Kyle. But DeMar grabs Kyle's wrists and holds them tightly, keeping Kyle from his attempts to get DeMar off the shower floor. He looks up, frowning.

“Do you not want this?” he asks.

“You don't have to!” Kyle says, insistent.

“I know. I want to.” DeMar responds, “Do you want me to?”

Kyle hesitates. He’s never wanted anything more, but he feels like he shouldn’t be able to have it. DeMar is giving him too much, especially when Kyle is the one who keeps pressing him, keeps throwing himself at DeMar. He’s supposed to make DeMar feel good, not the other way around. He doesn’t deserve this reciprocation. He wants to give himself, let DeMar take. 

DeMar stares Kyle down, and trapped in his gaze, Kyle can’t seem to find it in him to lie. He nods, filled with shame, and with that, DeMar swallows him down. Kyle feels like he’s been kicked in the chest, all the air has left his body and he is left grasping at the slippery walls for something to hold on to but comes up empty. He curls over DeMar’s body, clutching his shoulder as DeMar’s plush lips sink down to the base of his dick. He can’t stand up straight, hunched over with his pleasure. It’s over very quickly.

They make out lazily afterwards as they clean each other off, Kyle can taste himself on DeMar’s tongue. It makes his head swim.

It's late when they finally walk out to the parking lot, much too late for any restaurants to be open. They go through the McDonalds drive-thru, grab hamburgers and fries even though they know they shouldn’t. DeMar takes a video of Kyle trying to rap the words to a song he barely knows. It feels normal, uncomplicated. Kyle can’t stop smiling. He drops DeMar off just like he did a week earlier, after the last time they fucked around, only this time DeMar is laughing when he gets out of the car. 

“He sounds so stupid when he laughs,” Kyle thinks as he drives away smiling, tail lights again illuminating DeMar’s frame standing in his driveway, watching Kyle leave. Kyle drives home and gets into bed, still grinning. When he pulls off his hoodie, the scent of DeMar’s body wash is still clinging to his skin. He falls asleep shirtless, face buried in his arm, breathing deeply. 

Kyle sleeps soundly but he has the same dream as before, unable to breathe, on the floor after taking a charge. This time DeMar turns to look at him, but his eyes are hard. He just watches as Kyle gasps on the court, curled up, dying.

He FaceTimes DeMar in the morning, needing to verify that when DeMar looks it him, there is laughter there. They make plans to get lunch. DeMar’s eyes smiled at Kyle the whole time.

The next evening they play the Heat and pull out a win. Kyle is giving a post game interview when DeMar comes up behind him. Kyle knows DeMar is trying to put Kyle off his rhythm so he resolutely ignores him, although he can’t help the way the corners of his lips turn up as he feels DeMar approach. He steels himself for whatever DeMar is about to do, holding his breath in anticipation. He’s waiting for the punchline, expecting a quip about his game or a hand pulling his hat off his head. What he gets is DeMar sniffing at his neck and his lips brushing gently against Kyle’s skin as he murmurs to him.

“You smell good,” softly, sweetly. Kyle has to suppress a shiver, smile widening. They had made eye contact earlier after the game, as Kyle had slipped into the same shower stall they had shared the day before as DeMar was leaving it, wrapped in a towel. 

“You got soap this time?” DeMar had asked slyly. Kyle did, it was in his hand, but he shook his head, pushing the limits, testing the boundaries. Without another word DeMar had tossed him the half empty bottle and walked back towards his locker. Kyle stood for a moment, staring after him, for the first time since he and DeMar had become close, Kyle couldn’t tell if DeMar was serious or joking. He didn’t know what the exchange meant, if it was meant to hurt or make him laugh.

He used the soap. Left the shower smelling like DeMar for the second time in two days.

Kyle turns away from the reporters to look at DeMar. “Oh man, thanks man, I appreciate it man, it’s the soap you bought me.” He goes back to the interview, still smiling, the pit of anxiety in his stomach easing as he sees DeMar look back and laugh, his nonchalant joke throwing this new shape of their relationship into stark definition. They clearly aren’t going to ignore it, keep pretending that it never happened, so they can acknowledge it, make it real, and laugh about it, make it normal.

The joke seems to blow the doors wide open. They can talk about it now, in a roundabout way. It’s the beginning of something new, hooking up on the road, blowjobs in hotel rooms, and once, Kyle jerking DeMar off in the back of the bus on their way to the airport. It's fun, exploring this with Deebo. DeMar makes Kyle laugh in the middle of sex, which is a new experience for him, and Kyle likes to send DeMar explicit texts during team dinners to watch him have to control his expressions and then kick Kyle in the shins under the table in retaliation. It's easy, easier than Kyle ever thought something like this could be, but it’s with DeMar so he shouldn’t really be surprised. Everything they are is easier than breathing. He wakes up smiling every day.

**4 March 2, 2018**

At the moment, Kyle can’t really remember how he got here, one leg hooked over DeMar’s right shoulder as DeMar slides into him. 

They’re in a hotel in D.C., coming off a win against the Wizards. At dinner, a raucous affair in the hotel dining room after the game, the rookies planned a FIFA tournament in Norm’s room which both Kyle and DeMar excused themselves from. They followed the rest of the team upstairs, who turned right down the hallway to Norm’s room, while Kyle and DeMar went left. The two of them ended up in DeMar’s room, listening to music and scrolling through social media.

DeMar was laid out on the bed next to Kyle, feet hanging off the edge and his sweatshirt riding up, showing off the cut of his hips. Kyle wanted to reach out one finger and touch, to trace over the sharp jut of his bone. He wondered errantly what it would feel like to be nestled in the cradle of those hips. To be pinned down by them, to writhe above them, DeMar’s big hands holding him down on top of them. He shivered. Once the idea entered his mind he couldn’t escape it. For half an hour he lay, staring at the screen of his phone, scrolling through his Instagram feed, liking pictures he barely saw, until he can’t stand it any longer, already half hard and aching in his sweats.

“DeMar.” He said, looking up at the ceiling so he doesn’t have to see DeMar’s face when DeMar inevitably says no.

“Hmm?” DeMar hummed, distracted by whatever he was looking at on Twitter.

“I want you to fuck me.” Kyle told the ceiling fan, too nervous to turn over and tell DeMar. DeMar didn’t say anything in response, in fact, Kyle couldn’t even hear him breathing. Startled, he looked over at his friend who was staring back, eyes dark and liquid, a look Kyle knows very well by now. A look that means that Kyle’s night is about to get exponentially better. Also a look he was frankly shocked to see in the moment. He thought DeMar would turn him down, avoid going there, worry that such a level of intimacy would ruin this fragile equilibrium they have reached. 

“C’mere.” DeMar replied, voice husky. Kyle came, sitting where DeMar motioned, one leg on either side of DeMar, straddling him. DeMar pulled Kyle in for a kiss, deep and sure. He nipped at Kyle’s lips, traced his tongue along the bow of it, pulled all the breath from Kyle’s chest and then dipped in and took even more. Kyle was dizzy with it, gasping when DeMar finally pulled away. “Are you sure?” He asked, then hummed low in his throat, almost a growl when Kyle nodded and leaned down for another kiss.

DeMar’s hands had made their way under the waistband of Kyle’s sweats, grabbing his ass and squeezing. It made Kyle groan, impatient. DeMar took the hint, flipping them over cleanly so that he hovered over Kyle. He helped Kyle pull of his shirt and yanked down his sweats. He looked down at Kyle for a moment, laying there as he looked back up at DeMar, eyes wide and wanting. DeMar looked done in at the thought of what they were about to do and they hadn’t even gotten there yet. Kyle preened under the attention.

DeMar pulled off his shirt as he went to his suitcase, searching for something in the side pocket of his bag. He came back to the bed holding a clear tube. Kyle doesn’t have to ask what it is. It’s not until he sees lube, starts thinking about the mechanics of this instead of just the concept of DeMar inside of him, that he starts to get nervous.

“Deebo, I-” He started, licking his lips hesitantly. “I don’t really know how to do this.”

DeMar smiled, “I got you. Just relax as much as you can.” Kyle nodded, trusting, as DeMar spread his thighs and slipped one wet finger inside him. Kyle had to fight the instinct to shut his knees. He had never felt this open and vulnerable with anyone before, used to being the one between the thighs instead of where he was now. And the two fingers that DeMar had inside him felt alien and strange, moving in him. But DeMar was staring, entranced, at where he was disappearing inside of Kyle, chewing on his lip, eyes heavy and that made Kyle heat up inside.

He stretched Kyle, prepared him deftly, as if he had done this before - a question for another time Kyle thought, - as DeMar rolled on a condom and lined himself up.

And so here he is now, DeMar slowly pressing into him.

Kyle feels like the breath has been knocked out of him, being stretched wider than he thought he could be. He isn’t sure he likes it, isn’t sure why people do this, it’s uncomfortable and it burns to have DeMar inside of him. But that thought makes him shiver; DeMar is pressed up against his whole body, his cock so hard and thick inside of Kyle. And DeMar - Kyle looks up at DeMar’s face and he already looks blissed out, his eyes glassy and sweat gathering at his hairline. Kyle wipes at a drip with his thumb. He squeezes experimentally around DeMar, who groans in want.

“C-can I? Kyle, can I move?” he mutters, voice rough with the effort of holding back his moans. Kyle nods, not trusting his voice. DeMar breathes out heavily through his nose as he pulls out and smoothly pushes back in. Kyle still doesn’t really know if he likes it, but he does like the way he’s making DeMar feel. He loves that DeMar looks wrecked and its him, its him, its all him. So Kyle lets DeMar grip onto his hips and fuck into him, the only thing keeping him hard is the way DeMar is making cut off, choked noises and biting his lip.

DeMar opens his eyes and focuses on Kyle, forehead wrinkling as he takes in the look on Kyle’s face.

“Am I hurting you?” he asks, stopping abruptly. Kyle shakes his head.

“Kyle.” DeMar repeats, seriously. He’s clearly struggling to compose himself, his hips twitching forward a tiny bit. “Am I hurting you?”

“No.” Kyle says softly.

“Then what’s wrong? Do you want me to stop?” DeMar looks concerned and starts to pull out before Kyle grabs his wrist, grip strong. 

“No!” he half shouts. He tries again, a little more quietly. “No, please don’t stop.” He doesn’t want DeMar to pull away from him, wants to give DeMar everything he has, wants him to take.

DeMar looks at Kyle hard, “You gotta talk to me Kyle, what’s going on?” 

Kyle looks down at where his hand is still wrapped around DeMar’s wrist. “I’m fine.” he says shakily. “It doesn’t hurt, it just doesn’t really feel great?” 

DeMar’s face brightens. “Oh, okay!” he says, smiling down at Kyle. “I think I can fix that. But if it still doesn’t feel good, or it hurts, or if you want me to stop, I need you to tell me, okay?”

Kyle nods, eyes still on his hand on DeMar’s arm. DeMar gently grabs Kyle’s chin and pulls his head up to meet DeMar’s gaze. “Okay Kyle?” he repeats.

“Okay.” Kyle breathes out. DeMar nods once, satisfied. He reaches down and takes Kyle’s dick into his hand. Kyle gasps at the sudden contact. DeMar pulls out and slowly pushes back in, and then does it again and again, pushing in halfway like he’s searching for something. Kyle doesn’t really care because DeMar’s hand is on his cock and it’s shooting sparks of pleasure through his lower abdomen.

Suddenly Kyle’s eyes roll back in his head and he lets out a noise he didn’t know he was capable of as an intense wave of sensation crashes over him. His hand fists the mattress as his lower back arches up and away from it. When Kyle blinks the stars out of his eyes, DeMar is smirking down at him.

“Did I fix it?” he asks.

“Fuck you.” Kyle pants, his hands reaching to pull DeMar closer to him, to make him do that again, whatever it was. “Fuck you, don’t stop.”

DeMar begins to fuck into Kyle in ernest, making sure to keep his angle direct, making sure Kyle feels good. The inside of Kyle’s eyelids look like the Milky Way, supernovae exploding into the darkness with every press of DeMar’s hips.

Kyle’s hands fall to his chest. He slides them down to his stomach and he’s going to lose his mind, he thinks can feel DeMar moving inside him, can feel DeMar’s dick pressing against his insides. He moans low in his throat. He’s going to die from this.

His orgasm takes him by surprise. It hits him all at once, one moment he’s floating in pleasure, the next he’s overcome with it, crying out loudly as he shoots onto his stomach. DeMar fucks Kyle through it, chasing his own release. It's almost too much, sensation still rocking through Kyle every time DeMar moves inside him. His mind feels misty, he can’t really focus on anything at all, just floats through it blinking heavily up at DeMar. He feels unbelievably tender, soft for his best friend, watching DeMar fall apart above him. 

“Oh fuck Kyle, shit, _shit._” DeMar is panting, staring down at Kyle, eyes glassy with his pleasure. There is something about the way DeMar is looking at him, soft, almost sweet, that flips something for Kyle. He feels wanted, feels valuable, precious. Its suddenly vital that DeMar understands how much Kyle loves him. And fuck does Kyle love him...

The concept hits Kyle hard and all at once. He feels unsteady, grasping at DeMar, needing to hold on to him.

He loves DeMar. He is in love with him. 

He comes to this realization with DeMar pushing heavily into him. He bites down on DeMar’s shoulder to keep himself from doing something stupid like blurting it out loud. DeMar groans at the feeling, sounding as if the noise was ripped out of him and comes, falling on Kyle’s chest as his orgasm overtakes him.

Instead of pushing DeMar off of him with some quick quip about how he’s too heavy like he normally would, Kyle holds DeMar close, palms swiping slowly over the broad expanse of DeMar’s back as he shakes through his aftershocks, knees bracketing DeMar’s hips as DeMar slowly softens inside him. He doesn’t want to let go. He’s afraid to look at DeMar’s face. DeMar knows Kyle better than anyone, he’s terrified DeMar will take one look at him and know. DeMar makes a muffled noise from where his face is smushed into Kyle’s neck and starts to raise himself up. Kyle lets go slowly, lets him pull out, leaving Kyle empty. DeMar is right there next to him, but Kyle feels lonely somehow, isolated in his emotions.

DeMar starts to laugh from where he’s laying, staring up at the ceiling. Kyle looks over, already grinning faintly, his emotional turmoil taking a backseat to whatever has DeMar joyful. DeMar’s laugh tends to have that effect on him. It’s contagious and dorky and it doesn’t happen nearly enough.

“What?” Kyle asks, kicking gently at DeMar’s calf. DeMar rolls on his side to face Kyle, propping his head up on his hand. He grabs Kyle’s foot to stop the attack and then holds it gently, fingers looped around his ankle, thumb sweeping over the soft skin under the bone. Somehow, despite all that they have just done, all the touches DeMar has given Kyle thus far, this is what almost brings Kyle to tears.

Kyle folds himself up, knees tucked into his chest, he knows it is dangerous to let DeMar keep holding him like this but he can’t even fathom pulling away. He does the next best thing, curling up so that his heart, which he can feel trying to beat out of his chest, reaching for DeMar, will do nothing but hit his knees instead of falling, bloody and obvious, on the bed between them. 

“I’ve been wanting to do that for a while.” DeMar admits, looking bashful but open, sincere. 

Kyle lets out a surprised laugh, “Really?” He can’t imagine DeMar thinking about...this, whatever it is they're doing.

“Yeah.” DeMar lifts one shoulder into a shrug. “You kinda can’t _not_ think about it, not with what you got back there.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Kyle cackles and shoves at DeMar’s arm, which disappointingly, doesn’t move at all.

DeMar grins at Kyle, eyes shining with suppressed laughter. “Don’t front like you don’t flaunt that shit.”

There is no reasonable response for such a stupid question, not because its untrue but because it’s _not._ But Kyle will never admit to it so instead he reaches over, uncurling himself and aiming a well placed jab at DeMar’s kidney. DeMar huffs at the sharp twinge, caught off guard and then launches a counter strike, the two of them smacking at each other like seven year olds. Finally they call a truce, mussed and panting. Kyle launches one more attack, pinching DeMar’s nipple to make him yelp.

“Ow what the fuck, man that hurt. Fuck is wrong with you?” DeMar curses at him, rubbing over his chest to ease the sting. Kyle collapses into giggles. When he finally catches his breath, DeMar is looking at him, smiling gently. He leans over quickly, one hand on the back of Kyle’s neck and pulls him into a quick kiss. It catches Kyle off guard. It is a kiss with no expectations, not to warm up to anything more, a kiss just for the sake of a kiss. Kyle doesn’t know what it means.

DeMar seems unconcerned with the spiral he has just sent Kyle down. He hauls himself off the bed and holds out a hand.

“Shower?” he says. Kyle takes his hand and DeMar pulls him up. Kyle wants nothing more than to follow DeMar into the bathroom, to press up against him in the shower, to have an excuse to run his hands over DeMar’s torso, down his legs, feel the power and strength in the hard lines of his back, but he knows he can’t. Knows he is in too deep, that if he allows himself this, if DeMar kisses him easily again, kisses him like they’ve been doing this for years, as if its second nature, he will be unable to keep it together.

Kye is fully aware what this relationship is. It’s fueled by desire, yes, but Kyle knows DeMar could have anybody he wanted. The only reason he chooses to continue this with Kyle is that he trusts Kyle completely and without hesitation. It is nothing more than that. Kyle knows, with the certainty that comes with habitual rejection, that if DeMar knew that Kyle felt more for him than friendship and brotherhood, if he knew Kyle wanted him, loved him, deep, in the marrow of his bones, he would look at Kyle with eyes filled with sorrow, and begin to distance himself. They would still be friends, DeMar would never cut him out completely, but they would hold each other at a distance, not what they were, not what they have been, but something grey and cold and uncertain.

Kyle needs to make an exit, excuse himself somehow and leave, walk away from this situation and be alone, process what this all means in a space where he can think. A space that does not have DeMar DeRozan standing, soft and glowing and completely naked in front of him. 

“Um I’m actually pretty exhausted, I think I’m just gonna head back to my room and sleep early.” Kyle picks up his sweatpants that are pooled on the floor and pulls them on, unbothered by the come still drying on his stomach.

DeMar looks at him, eyes confused and hurt for a moment before he shutters them, unreadable. He nods wordlessly and watches Kyle gather up his belongings and walk to the door. “Night.” Kyle says, throws it over his shoulder with one final glance as he cracks open the heavy hotel door and slips out, careful not to open it wide enough to expose DeMar unclothed, now sitting hunched over on the edge of the bed, staring after Kyle as the door swings shut.

Kyle makes it back to his room without being accosted by any of his teammates. As soon as the door closes behind him he sinks to the floor, head in his hands, shoulders shaking as sobs wrack his body. He cries for DeMar, mourns the effortless intimacy he knows they must now lose if Kyle is going to keep his feelings hidden. He cries like he hasn’t for years, drained by the extremes of emotion that have consumed him in the past few hours. He showers, unable to tell if the drops rolling down his cheeks are tears or not. He lays in bed, curled facing the wall, and counts his breaths, finally dropping off.

When he falls asleep he dreams of sunshine, sweat, and a basketball court and a laugh that makes his heart jump out of his chest. He watches it as it leaves his body and arches toward the hoop, a perfect lob, as two familiar, tattooed hands reach up to catch it and slam it home. His laugh rings out, elation filling his body at the joy and pride of the basket, even as his heart hits the blacktop and shatters into thousands of gory, shimmering pieces.

**5 March 18. 2018**

It seems insane that Kyle would be in love with his best friend and honestly not have realized it, but nobody ever said Kyle was sane. 

The truly insane thing is that nothing has really changed. Kyle still laughs with DeMar, still cracks jokes and stays late at the gym to shoot around. They still go out to eat and hang out in each other’s hotel rooms when they’re on the road. It’s just that now Kyle has to bite his tongue every two minutes. It’s like now that he realized he’s in love with DeMar he understands why it took so long for him to admit to himself: these feelings can’t possibly be lived with, too deep and intense, overflowing. He’s bursting with it sometimes, unable to comprehend the enormity of his emotions. His heart swells into his throat when he hears DeMar laugh, pride puffing his chest after every game. He wants to cry when he looks at DeMar, the sharpness of his cheekbones, the bow curve of his lips, his voice, the muted consonants and rolling vowels of his words. He wants to know the shape his tongue makes around the letters of Kyle’s name. 

He thinks it must be obvious the way he looks at DeMar, the way he can’t tear his eyes away, can’t stop touching. Kyle always wants DeMar, aches for him in his bones, in his stomach, in the cavern of his chest. Wants him in the biblical sense, yes, but in every other sense too. Wants to know him intimately, wants to curl up inside him, wants to hold himself open for DeMar to take and take and take.

He wants what he knows he shouldn't, and so he maintains distance. They don’t sleep together, that night in D.C. two weeks before is the last time he touches DeMar like he wants to.

Until it all falls apart.

It’s a home game against OKC. They lose by seven points, their first loss in eleven games, their first loss since February. DeMar needs Kyle right now, it’s clear on the tired planes of his face. He’s already overanalyzing. When he asks, Kyle knows what he’s looking for.

“Can I come home with you?” DeMar says, shifting his weight from foot to foot in the parking lot, adrenaline still coursing through him, jittery. It’s cold in Toronto and DeMar’s breath puffs out in clouds as he speaks. Kyle watches his words twist upwards and dissipate, as if the physical disappearance of them will prevent him from having to answer. When he shifts his eyes back DeMar is still looking at him questioningly.

He knows he shouldn’t and yet this is the first time DeMar has asked, the first time he’s initiated this, the first time Kyle hasn’t thrown himself at DeMar first. And DeMar is looking at him like that, eyes clear, just asking, opening himself up to rejection. He’s vulnerable right now, not even trying to hide it, it’s pouring out of him and all he’s asking from Kyle is to do what Kyle desperately wants to do anyways. Kyle’s heart twists looking at him. His resolve crumbles before his love, sweeping over him, wide, expansive, unrelenting.

“‘Course.” He unlocks the car, grabbing DeMar’s backpack from him as he walks around the back to put their things in the trunk. DeMar is already pulling up a playlist when Kyle gets in the driver’s seat, his phone connecting automatically to the car speakers. Kyle’s mind is whirring, anxiety thrumming through him. He can feel it swirling through his bloodstream, making his hands shake. He grips the steering wheel hard and tries to calm himself down as he starts the car.

It’s just, they’ve never done this at home before. They’ve limited it to hotels and locker rooms, boundaries immediately set through the impersonal venue. Kyle knows himself, and though he hates himself for it, he knows he needs to be able to escape if it all becomes too much. He casts around his head for any possible reason to go to DeMar’s instead. There isn’t one. He makes shit up. When Kyle pulls onto the freeway he reaches for the volume to turn it down. Keeping his eyes on the road he addresses DeMar.

“Man I forgot I’m having some work done on the bathroom and they haven’t finished yet, you mind if we go to yours?” DeMar looks surprised but agrees without hesitation.

“I didn’t know you were getting stuff done to the house.” He says after a pause.

Kyle shrugs, “The plumbing was all fucked up.” He hopes it sounds convincing. DeMar just nods, picking at his nails, the car lapsing into silence once again. He can see the glances DeMar keeps casting at him out of the corner of his eye and it makes him wince. He knows he’s acting weird but doesn’t know how to stop. It’s all he can do just to keep his eyes on the road. 

They turn up the familiar driveway to DeMar’s house. It’s too quiet when Kyle cuts off the motor, not really awkward, they’re too close for awkwardness anymore, but unnatural. DeMar is staring at the side of Kyle’s face, seemingly waiting for him to say something. Kyle can’t fathom what it could be so he just turns and opens his door, getting out and going to grab their bags from the trunk.

The second DeMar unlocks the door and steps into the house Kyle crowds him against the wall and drops to his knees. He has DeMar’s dick out of his sweats and is sucking him down before DeMar has even put his bag on the floor.

“Shit!” One of DeMar’s hands falls to Kyle’s head, sliding to grip his hair. The curse echoes around the foyer followed by the obscene noises Kyle’s mouth is making. He chokes, tears gathering in his eyes, but he doesn’t pull off. If he stops he will start to think, and if he thinks he will panic. 

Kyle relaxes his throat, lets DeMar slip all the way down, relishes the feeling of this man inside of him. DeMar groans, deep and guttural, then gasps out the beginning of Kyle’s name before spilling into Kyle’s mouth.

DeMar releases his vice like grip on Kyle’s hair, but keeps his hands there, fingers gently twisting Kyle’s curls. Kyle looks up and their eyes connect. DeMar’s are hot, hot. Dark and smouldering. Kyle knows how he looks, tear tracks mixing with the spit and come on his chin. DeMar whispers his name, grips his forearms and lifts him up, Kyle’s bruised knees protesting the movement. He feels old suddenly, too old to hurt like this, too old to be fucking around like this. He should stop, he knows that. The problem is, with all his age, with all his wisdom, he has never not wanted to stop so badly in his life.

DeMar pulls Kyle into himself, thigh thick and hard against the heat of Kyle’s dick through his sweats. Kyle wants to rut against him, come just like this, with DeMar’s hands on his waist, controlling his movements. But Kyle can’t give up power like that. He knows he can’t let DeMar have the upper hand, because Kyle won’t have the strength to take it back if he needs to.

So he maintains control the only way he can think of. When DeMar leans down for a kiss, Kyle turns his head away. DeMar stops himself before his lips brush Kyle’s cheek. Kyle can feel DeMar’s breath ghost across his face, right where DeMar’s kiss would have landed. His heart aches with the lack of feeling. He closes his eyes against the grinding, sickening gnaw of heartache, and turns, walking away from DeMar but towards the bedroom, shedding clothing as he goes.

DeMar’s bed is huge. It’s also covered in the softest sheets Kyle has ever felt. He doesn’t want to get comfortable though, needs to remind himself that this is a quick fuck, not DeMar taking him to bed. He falls onto the bed on all fours and waits for DeMar to follow him into the room. He turns over onto his stomach so he doesn’t have to look in DeMar’s face while they fuck. He’s got a ball of emotion in his throat. He desperately doesn’t want DeMar to see him cry. 

DeMar opens him up carefully, as he always does, taking more time than necessary, but instead of the room being filled with banter and poorly stifled laughter, it is quiet; just the sounds of Kyle panting as DeMar stretches him wide. The only words they share are of DeMar asking Kyle if he’s ready, and Kyle’s monosyllabic response, knowing that DeMar needs him to say it out loud, to confirm, to consent. When he gives it, DeMar slides into him in one easy push, Kyle’s body giving way to DeMar fully. 

DeMar grabs at his hips with one hand and presses Kyle’s torso into the mattress with the other. Kyle feels slutty and depraved, ass up, back arched obscenely. DeMar is moving too slowly, so Kyle pushes back against him, rolling his hips and making DeMar grab at him tighter. DeMar slaps his ass, the surprise and shock of it making him cry out into the pillow. Something about it sets DeMar off because that’s when he begins speaking. He speaks like Kyle has never heard, nor expected from DeMar. He folds himself over Kyle’s bent body, wraps a hand around Kyle’s dick and starts muttering pure filth into Kyle’s ear, his full lips brushing over the shell of it and making Kyle shake uncontrollably. He whimpers brokenly when he finally comes, spilling onto the sheets. 

They both lay, breathing hard. Kyle gets up and walks to the bathroom, wetting a washcloth and cleaning himself off and taking a moment to try to compose himself before he steps back into DeMar’s room. It doesn’t work. The air is hot and heady when he walks back in, it smells like sex, and Kyle is breathing it in, its filling him up again, what they’ve just done. It’s in his lungs, it’s in his heart, it feels like all he’s got left.

DeMar is splayed out on the duvet, the orange glow of the late afternoon sun lighting up the droplets of sweat covering his body. He’s glistening. He blinks sleepily up at Kyle, looking debauched, looking satiated. His chest is rising and falling with his deep breaths. Kyle wants to lay his head there for hours, hear the beating of his heart slow, to know its rhythm like he knows his own. 

Kyle is frozen in the doorway. It’s bleeding over into their real lives now, this thing they’re doing. This is where DeMar wakes up every morning, where, in a perfect world, Kyle would wake up next to him. He can’t _do_ this. He thought he could, thought he could stay close and still keep his sanity. His heart was a foregone conclusion, long since broken, but he thought he could maintain some sort of normalcy, could at least give DeMar sex, the only thing he had to offer, but he can’t, he can’t. 

He wants more, wants love, wants to give it freely. He feels caged and he wants DeMar to know, he feels DeMar deserves to know, not because there was any hope of DeMar loving him back, but because DeMar should know that someone loves him the way Kyle does. That someone chose him, chose to love him, wholly and unreservedly.

He can’t even think of an excuse to escape, can’t force himself to walk away slowly to hide the fact that he’s running from this. He’s losing it all anyways, he has to run, has to pick up the crumbling pieces of himself and get away before there’s nothing left.

“I can’t-” Kyle half sobs, washcloth dropping from his hands onto the floor.

“Kyle?” DeMar sits up, one hand reaching out in concern. “What’s wrong?”

Kyle shakes his head, grabs his shorts from the floor and yanks them on. He’s got tears leaking down his cheeks now, exactly what he didn’t want DeMar to see. He pulls on his sweatshirt.

“No don’t!” he cries out as DeMar moves off the bed and towards him. DeMar jerks back, his eyes wide. Kyle has never refused contact from DeMar, never, in their almost decade of friendship, but if DeMar touches Kyle he won’t be able to leave. Kyle can feel the hurt and confusion rolling off DeMar in waves. It makes him cry harder. He’s hurting DeMar while he’s trying to save himself and he doesn’t know what to do. “Don’t.” He repeats, whispering.

“Kyle, please.” DeMar’s voice is soft, pleading. He hasn’t moved an inch, clearly not wanting to spook Kyle away. “Please, what’s wrong? Just tell me what’s wrong.” 

“I can’t do this anymore, okay? It’s not fair.” He turns, practically running out of the room and down the stairs. He’s digging frantically in his pockets for his keys, before he slips out the front door and stands in the driveway shivering. The jagged edge of the keys dig into his palm where he’s clenching his fist around them, trying desperately to ground himself.

He’s panicked, feels like he’s just done something horrible. He can practically smell the smouldering rubble of his friendship with DeMar behind him. He fucked up, he overreacted and now DeMar knows. There’s no way he doesn’t, it’s so obvious. And Kyle has just run away again and DeMar let him. He stood there while Kyle ran, didn’t fight it. He wanted Kyle to leave. Maybe somehow him asking for it today was one last gift he was giving to Kyle before it was all over.

He drives home but it takes him forty-five minutes of sitting in his driveway to get out of his car and go inside. The world feels less real somehow, he’s unmoored in it. DeMar was a tether, keeping him grounded and solid and he’s just snapped that line, self-destructive idiot that he is.

When he finally drags himself into his house, Kyle goes to lie face down on the couch, cries for a while, and then does the only thing he can think of. He calls his mom. The moment she answers, picks up and calls him son it spills out of him, his words barreling down, tripping over each other. It doesn’t even occur to him that he’s telling his mother for the first time that he’s in love with a man, and that that man is someone she sees as a second son. Later he will think he should have been nervous, but in the moment he is only thinking about how much he needs her. At the end of it all, she’s still there, breathing softly on the other end of the line as he sobs. 

“Kyle, baby,” she says, wise and warm like his mother is, “talk to him.”

“Mom, I can’t.” He replies, exasperated, “didn’t you hear me? He probably hates me. I yelled at him. And I ran away from him. And he’s probably disgusted that I’ve been so pathetically desperate for him. And now he knows that I’m in love with him, not that he didn’t before but now we can’t ignore it anymore because I just pretty much told him because I’m a fucking idiot who can’t get his shit together and-”

“Kyle. Stop.” His mother’s voice is firm. There’s no room to argue with her. Kyle feels simultaneously chastised and loved. He’s still the same little boy his mother always yelled at to stop dribbling in the house. The thought calms him a bit, his chest loosening, allowing him to suck in a couple deep breaths.

“First of all,” his mom continues, “watch your language.” Kyle mumbles an apology as she carries on. “Second, that boy does not hate you. I don’t think he could ever hate you. Have you not seen the two of you together, causing havoc, being assholes?” Kyle lets out a wet laugh, tears overflowing again.

“I’ve never seen a bond like yours. If you love him, for real, then trust him to be the person you love. Give him a chance to love you back, stop taking that choice from him.” 

When Kyle gets off the phone the sun has fully set, taking the colors of the day with it. He makes some tea, holds it until it goes cold. He sits on his couch and watches the stars track across the sky and the moon disappear and the sun rise up from behind the trees. He doesn’t dream because he doesn’t sleep.

**+1 March 19. 2018**

DeMar isn’t at practice the next day. It's never happened before, DeMar is usually infallible, at every practice, meeting, and game early, so his absence is strange and the rest of the team is clearly concerned. Kyle gets seven questions about it before he has even fully entered the locker room. It’s a blessing and a curse. Because DeMar is everyone’s preoccupation, nobody notices how terrible he looks, eyes red and weighed down with bags from his sleepless night. But Kyle doesn’t have an answer for any of their questions, doesn’t know where DeMar is either, and now he’s anxious too.

He’s gnawing at his nail beds, jittery, when Casey walks into the gym to start practice. “Huddle up guys.” He says, gesturing them in. He holds his hands up as Norm opens his mouth, presumably to ask about their leader.

“DeMar is sick, he’s got a nasty flu. I told him to rest so he can be ready for our roadtrip. All right, now we’re gonna start with a shooting drill...” Kyle tunes the rest of it out, mind whirring. DeMar was fine yesterday, no trace of an illness, but he also would never miss practice without serious reason. And if the reason isn’t illness than it’s Kyle’s fault. DeMar clearly wants space, can’t even bring himself to look at Kyle during practice. The thought of it makes Kyle feel sick to his stomach. He rushes off the practice court, hand over his mouth. Freddie finds him in there a few minutes later, rinsing the taste of vomit out of his mouth. Freddie hands him a stick of gum as he leans against the wall by the sink.

“You wanna tell me what this is about?” Freddie asks, face impassive.

“What is what about?” Kyle counters, looking up at Freddie, eyes wide with performed innocence. 

“Don’t give me that,” Fred rolls his eyes, unamused. “You might be the vet here but your acting skills are shit. You’re clearly not good. Does this have something to do with DeMar?”

“What?” Kyle responds too quickly, “why would you say that?”

Freddie shrugs. “I mean he’s not here, you look terrible, and you just ran off the court to come puke your guts out in the toilet. And I know you hate practice but that’s an extreme reaction to it. It’s not that hard to put two and two together.”

Kyle sighs heavily and sinks to the floor, putting his head in his hands. The cold tile of the wall he’s resting on feels good on his overheated skin. It centers him a bit. Freddie slides down to sit next to him, seemingly unconcerned about their surroundings.

“I’m in love with him.” he admits, voice muffled from behind the hands over his face. Freddie is silent next to Kyle, and Kyle peeks out from behind his hands to see his reaction. Freddie’s impassive expression hasn’t changed.

“Okay, and?” Fred prompts him.

“What do you mean ‘and’?” Kyle says indignantly, “Is that not enough?” 

“I mean I guess?” Freddie shrugs. “I just thought this was common knowledge.”

Kyle stares at him in shock. “Common knowledge?” he repeats.

“Yeah.” Freddie replies. “I mean I thought it was pretty obvious that you felt that way about him. I just assumed it was already known.”

“Fuck.” Kyle drops his head back into his hands. “So he knew and he just pity fucked me.” 

“I dunno man, that doesn’t seem like something DeMar would do.” 

“Yeah but if I was that obvious about it then he’s known for weeks.”

Freddie lets out a laugh. “Weeks? You mean years.”

“Uh no I don’t. I fell in love with him a few weeks ago.” Kyle shoots back.

Freddie shakes his head with a smirk on his face, “Well I don’t know about when you realized it, but you’ve been looking at him the same way for as long as I’ve known you. You been in love this whole time man.” Kyle just gapes at Freddie, trying to process what he has just said.

“He’s been looking at you the same way, you know.” Freddie gets up and holds his hands out to Kyle to pull him up. “Maybe give yourself some credit sometimes Kyle. People love you. Let them.” At that Freddie walks out of the locker room to rejoin practice, leaving Kyle stunned and confused.

They’re playing back to back away games in Orlando and Cleveland. Kyle isn’t sure DeMar is coming and is surprised when DeMar boards the plane without ceremony and sits in his usual seat next to Kyle, hood up and headphones on. He pretends to sleep, his breaths even and measured but the line of his body tense. Kyle isn’t sure why he’s pretending. Kyle can read him better than anyone. He thinks about what Freddie told him, but DeMar is clearly uncomfortable in his presence and Kyle doesn’t ever want to make it worse so he leaves DeMar alone, gives him that space that Kyle has always closed between them. Besdes, if DeMar has always looked at Kyle the same way it just means that his feelings towards Kyle have never changed. He has always seen Kyle as his best friend, nothing more. He can admit to himself that he’s been in love with DeMar for far longer than he realized, but this epiphany changes nothing, DeMar doesn’t want him that way and Kyle needs to respect it. Kyle keeps his eyes on his iPad and curls to the side to make sure he stays far away from the length of DeMar’s thigh, stretched out next to him. He’s not sure if giving Deebo space is the right thing to do, but then again, he’s not sure of much of anything anymore.

DeMar is rested for the first game against Orlando. Kyle knows, when Casey informs the rest of the team of this, that it’s his fault DeMar isn’t out there, he knows that, sick or otherwise, he caused DeMar to be feeling unwell. It's his fault so it’s his turn to shoulder the burden of carrying the team. He does it in style, pulling out a win, 93-86. He put up 25 points, gets 8 assists and 5 rebounds, but he doesn’t care about the numbers. He’s shining, with 25 seconds left in the first half he throws up a transition 3 and it's perfect, the defense gives him too much space, he steps up and lets it fly. It falls beautifully. Before the ball even gets close to the rim DeMar is on his feet, walking towards the baseline, hyped. Kyle sees him, DeMar is smiling. It sparks hope in him, DeMar is still rooting for him, cheering him on even with their relationship as unstable as it is.

With less than two minutes left in the fourth quarter Kyle hits another three, his seventh of the night, beating the shot clock to put the Raptors up by eleven. DeMar bounds over to where Kyle is talking to Norm and Serge at the next timeout, smiling wide, two fingers out to initiate their handshake. DeMar looks thrilled, joyful. The tiredness of his face that was so present on the plane has disappeared, he looks like he always does when he’s with the team. They’ve still got a minute and forty-five seconds of the game left, Kyle knows he has to stay locked in, but somehow he’s gone almost two days without touching DeMar at all, and the feel of DeMar’s hand in his sends a rush of relief so strong Kyle feels like he’s walking on air.

It all goes to shit as soon as the game ends. DeMar goes straight to his room when they get to the hotel. He shuts the door and doesn’t come out. Usually Kyle would go bang on it until DeMar let him in, and then he’d make DeMar laugh and get him out of his head but Kyle doesn’t know where they stand right now. He’s terrified of making everything worse so he avoids it entirely. He has some food with JV and CJ, watches ESPN for a while in the empty hotel restaurant and heads to bed. On the way past DeMar’s room he can’t resist the sudden urge to place his palm flat on DeMar’s door, as if somehow he can feel the heat of his body through the heavy wood. He shakes his head at his stupidity and walks to his own room, footsteps soft in the deserted hallway. He feels indescribably lonely.

Things don’t get better the next morning, DeMar is back as a starter and he puts in a pretty solid performance, scoring twenty-one points. Kyle puts up twenty-four and yet, in classic LeBron in Cleveland style they can’t get the win. They only lose by three but Kyle is pissed. He lets it be known in his postgame interview. He’s frustrated, about the game, about his mental state, about these feelings that he can’t shake.

At one point during the interview he looks over to see DeMar listening in at his locker as he gets dressed. A journalist, perhaps prompted by DeMar’s presence next to him, shoots Kyle a question. 

“DeMar said the Cavs are still the top seed in the East, even though you have the best record in the conference-”

Kyle knows there’s no way DeMar said any such thing, and when he glances at DeMar, his expression proves it. They have hardly spoken since they left Toronto. Kyle’s heart aches for the banter that came so easily just days ago. He puts it on the line, makes a split second decision and shoots.

“Did you say that?”

A moment passes, the corner of DeMar’s mouth quirks up slightly. He closes the door to his locker, and looks over at Kyle. “I said they still a top team in our conference.” His eyes have a familiar spark in them. Kyle tries to swallow his smile. The journalist asks him for a response to DeMar’s comment. Kyle looks at him and tells him the god’s honest truth. It feels like one of the truest statements he’s ever made. 

“Whatever my guy says, I ride with my guy.” He shrugs, it is what it is. “It’s as simple as that.” When he looks up from the dispersing crowd of journalists, DeMar is looking at him. His eyes are wide and he has a strange look on his face. DeMar opens his mouth to speak. Dread starts to seep into Kyle, he can feel it coming from far off and it still overtakes him. He’s just overstepped, he’s said too much, made DeMar uncomfortable. He knows what DeMar is about to say, he’s going to tell him to back off. Kyle has had enough experience with rejection to know how it will feel when the words cross DeMar’s lips and he can’t take it, especially not from DeMar. He does what he has been doing since the moment he first kissed DeMar, he runs. He breaks eye contact, grabs his bag and rushes out of the room. 

They’re both profoundly bad at ignoring each other, as it turns out. Kyle keeps his eyes in his lap for the first half an hour of the plane trip, reading and rereading the same page on his iPad. He doesn’t even know what book he’s reading, he can’t focus on the words, not when DeMar is sitting next to him, legs so close together that he can feel the heat of his thigh. Sometimes DeMar will shift slightly, and his elbow will knock Kyle’s. They both recoil from the contact, hyper aware of their bodies. DeMar never looks over, just keeps his eyes trained on the sky out the window, the clouds bruised purple and grey. They’re both tense, they both know they’re tense, and the knowledge makes them even more anxious. Kyle is exhausted with a bone deep tiredness that only comes with indescribable melancholy by the time they land in Toronto and disembark. He goes home to his big empty house. It’s cold when he walks in and he can’t seem to get warm all night.

They have the next two days off. Coach Casey makes them all promise to do some light workouts to keep them warm for their next stretch of home games, but tells them to rest. Kyle tries to comply but he can’t seem to relax. He’s never been so tired in his life but every time he tries to close his eyes and take a nap his mind starts whirring and his heart starts pounding, and anxiety grips him. He gets it now, why DeMar doesn’t sleep much when he’s feeling unsettled. 

Thursday crawls by so slowly he can barely feel the time ticking past, like he’s living in the same minute for hours. He tries to occupy himself, watching movies, cleaning the kitchen, doing laundry, hell he even goes for a run, but nothing works. The future stretches in front of him, day after day looking as bleak as this one. The thought scares him. At one thirty he calls Fred, angry at himself for not being able to get through this himself. Freddie answers quickly like he’s been expecting the call. Kyle doesn’t even get a word out before Freddie says, “Its DeMar. Just go talk it out man, I promise it won’t end badly. Now leave me alone I’m napping.”

Kyle pulls his phone away from his ear as Freddie hangs up and frowns at it. These rooks are getting too comfortable. He has nothing to lose, he’s already screwed it up royally, so he gets in his car and drives the familiar route to DeMar’s house.

He knocks on the door, hands shaking. It takes DeMar a long time to come to the door. When it finally opens, DeMar’s face freezes in shock. They stand, staring at each other for a moment before DeMar moves to the side wordlessly, stepping back to let Kyle come inside. Kyle is touched by the gesture, allowing Kyle to enter his space again when all Kyle does is take from him. Giving, always giving when Kyle refuses to give of himself, when Kyle runs. DeMar is always there with Kyle, strong in his vulnerability, open in his pain, in his affection, in his sadness. 

“I um- I came to see if you were doing okay. Like if you were still feeling sick.” Kyle is twisting his fingers together nervously.

“I’m not sick.” DeMar‘s eyes are so so tired. He looks like he is trying to hold up the heavens and has been brought to his knees under the weight of it. Kyle hasn’t seen him like this in a long time.

“You’re not?” his throat feels stuck, it comes out shaky, broken.

“No Kyle,” he sighs, shoulders slumping, “I’m hurting. I hurt so bad.” The confession shoots through Kyle, icy and sharp, a sword right in the center of his chest. He relishes the hurt, knows he deserves worse.

“I’m so sorry.” He can’t look at DeMar, ashamed that he has caused DeMar pain. 

“Don’t be.” DeMar shakes his head. “It ain’t your fault. I shouldn’t have pushed you.”

“Pushed me? What does that mean?” Kyle is confused. He was always the one pushing, pressing DeMar. DeMar had only ever asked him once. 

“I made you come home with me. I asked for too much. Like obviously you wanted to stop after D.C. and then I asked when we came home and I know you always try to make me feel better after games and shit when I get all in my head and I took advantage of it and made you feel guilty. And you came with me and I pushed it too far and fucked it all up. I know you don’t want that from me and I’m so sorry Kyle, I ain’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I can’t draw the line anymore ya know? I wanna clean you up after we fuck and I wanna kiss you when I’m not supposed to and I’m sorry man. I just don’t wanna lose you completely.” He roughly swipes at the tears that began running down his cheeks halfway through his speech.

“What?” Kyle feels like an idiot but he honestly can’t comprehend what DeMar is saying to him. “You didn’t make me- I was never uncomfortable- I always wanted to, I always want to- It was my fault, I ruined it. I keep asking for more from you. I overstep I know that, I just-.” He stops and shakes his head, he doesn’t know what he’s saying.

DeMar is looking at him with a new light in his eyes, clearly finding meaning in the jumbled mess of half sentences that just came out of Kyle’s mouth.

“Wait, Kyle.” He slowly reaches out, giving Kyle time to pull away, and when he doesn’t, DeMar gently cups Kyle’s face in his hands. Kyle closes his eyes, relishing in the touch, the ache of missing DeMar sweeping over him, almost worse now that he has the warmth of DeMar’s hands on him, the hurt so starkly contrasted by the sweetness he feels now. The pang of the deep knowledge that he never wants to go another day without DeMar’s touch.

“Do you want to kiss me?” DeMar asks like it’s an easy question to answer, like it’s not a thing Kyle has been struggling with for years. His hands are warm and firm on the sides of Kyle's face. Kyle nods, an infinitesimal movement that means everything.

“Will you want to kiss me tomorrow?” Kyle nods again. There are tears brimming in his eyes.

“What about the day after that?” Kyle lets out a broken sob, he doesn’t understand what DeMar is doing, why he’s hurting him like this.

“And the day after that too? Forever?” His hands tighten, holding Kyle strong and inescapable.

“Yes” Kyle whispers, a single word breaking him, the confession ripped out of him without his consent because he can do many, many things - can sink a three from 30 feet out, can take a charge like its nothing, can make DeMar moan all pretty and soft, but he can’t lie to him. He knows this is truly the end of everything, that one syllable decimating his entire heart.

Demar brings their foreheads together, “God Kyle, what you do to me.” His eyes are shining with unshed tears as he shakes his head, a lament to the end of their friendship. Kyle feels sick. The world is shaking beneath him, he’s unsteady, unsure.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He chokes out. He doesn’t know what else to say.

“I’m not.” Demar laughs wetly. He grips the back of Kyle’s neck and pulls him into his shoulder. Kyle is terrified. This doesn’t feel like a goodbye, though it should be. He knows Demar isn’t cruel, wouldn’t play with Kyle, even if he’s disgusted by Kyle’s feelings. Kyle doesn’t know what this means, can’t figure it out. His mind is racing even as his body sinks into DeMar’s hold.  
DeMar holds him, tightly but gently, wrapping him up the way Kyle loves and whispers sweetness into the side of Kyle’s head as he presses desperate kisses there. “I love you too Kyle. I love you, I love you.”

Kyle chokes on a sob and grasps DeMar’s sweatshirt in his fists, his heart breaking and coming back together over and over again, with every kiss and every word. He can’t even say it back, he’s so overcome with it, but DeMar seems like he knows, somehow, and that’s good enough for now.

Slowly, infinitesimally, they make their way to DeMar’s bedroom, the afternoon sun washing the room golden. They land on the bed, still wrapped in each other, and slowly pull clothes off until they are skin to skin, breathing each other in.

DeMar lets go of him, replacing wandering hands with his lips, kissing Kyle everywhere as he opens Kyle up buries himself inside. It feels different somehow, looking in DeMar’s eyes, letting his guard down, allowing himself to touch like he never did before. He traces DeMar’s cheekbones, runs his fingers down the sides of his face, over his lips. DeMar closes his eyes and kisses Kyle’s fingers right before he thrusts in, making Kyle’s eyes roll back in pleasure. Sweetness followed by lasciviousness. The kind of fucking that makes Kyle blush just thinking about it. Tears well up in his eyes. It too much. Too good. He has never known desire like this.

“Harder DeMar, harder!” But DeMar just slows down. Rolling his hips in long even strokes, getting so deep into Kyle. Kyle throws his arm over his eyes, it’s too much. Too much to look at DeMar. It feels too intimate. Too much like something sweet. He forgets he is allowed this now.

Without breaking his rhythm, DeMar pulls Kyle’s arm away from his face and laces their fingers together. He dips down, his chain hitting the center of Kyle’s chest as DeMar places soft kisses on his face. Kyle gasps as DeMar pushes in deeper, and DeMar uses the opportunity to bite at Kyle’s full bottom lip and lick into him.

Tears flow freely down Kyle’s face. It's so overwhelming, DeMar pressing so deeply into him, filling him up. He is surrounded by DeMar, chest pressing him into the bed, anchoring him with his hands and his kisses even as he pushes Kyle farther out into waves of pleasure with his dick pushing against his prostate and his abs rubbing against Kyle’s dripping cock.

DeMar licks into his mouth once more before leaning his forehead against Kyle’s. “Let me hear you Kyle. Let me know how I make you feel.”

It’s like a damn breaks inside Kyle. He’s been biting his words back for so long, this command sounds like freedom. A wail rises out of him, moans torn from him with every one of DeMar’s thrusts. He doesn’t even know what he’s saying, doesn’t know if he’s making any sense. He keeps repeating two words over and over like a mantra:

“Just you. Just you.”

DeMar growls at that and his hips stutter a quick rhythm but he returns to the same slow pace.

“Christ, DeMar, please, faster”

“No” Demar respondes through gritted teeth.

“Wh-why?” Kyle pushes out through a wet moan.

DeMar raises his head and stares straight into Kyle’s eyes. And Kyle reaches up to touch DeMar’s face in shock because DeMar has tears in his eyes and he’s shaking. “Because I don’t want to just fuck you, okay? I wanna love you, let me love you, let me show you.”

Kyle sobs. “DeMar,” it’s the only thing he knows anymore. “DeMar, DeMar, DeMar.”

He can’t stop himself, whispering DeMar’s name into the curve of his neck as DeMar grinds into him slow and rhythmic. They’re pressed together so tightly, Kyle feels like his skin is DeMar’s, like he is being wrapped up, like DeMar is pressing him into his body, to take up residence around DeMar’s heart. Kyle falls right over the edge without warning. Tumbling head first into his orgasm. His whole body pulls taught, arching up against the wide expanse of DeMar’s chest and clenching down around his throbbing dick. DeMar gasps and buries himself into Kyle as he comes after a few more strokes into Kyle’s body, still spasming through aftershocks.

Kyle blinks his eyes open, finally coming back into himself, to see DeMar laying on his chest, tracing patterns against Kyle’s hipbone. It takes a moment before Kyle realizes he’s spelling out their names over and over again. “DeMar, Kyle, DeMar, Kyle.” It feels stronger than a tattoo, feels like DeMar is marking his soul, joining them together enduringly, intimate like what they have just done.

He lifts his hand to stroke down DeMar’s back. His skin is warm. He looks so sweet, blinking languidly as he hums softly to himself. The sun is on its way under the horizon, and the now orange rays light up all the creases and marks on DeMar’s face. Kyle’s breath catches in his chest, his heart feels wrung out, he is helpless in the depth of his love. DeMar’s 6 foot 7 frame is ridiculously curled around Kyle’s much shorter body, his acne scars are clearer than ever, and he has never looked more beautiful.

“I’m sorry Deebo.” Kyle doesn’t want to break the peace of the moment but needs DeMar to know. “ I’m sorry I hurt you. I didn’t think someone like you could possibly love me. I felt lucky enough just to love you. The thought of you loving me back was impossible.”

DeMar shakes his head against Kyle’s chest, “I could feel it sometimes, you know. I felt you loving me. But every time I felt like I had you for a second you ran away. You just kept walking away from me. I didn’t know what to do. God, Kyle, I thought I was reading too far into it, wishful thinking, you know?”

Kyle huffs out half a laugh, it’s not funny but it’s a ludicrous thought, that he would be reading into it. “I didn’t know, for a long time, that I love you.”  
DeMar props his head up on his arms to look more fully at Kyle’s face. “When did you know?”

Kyle smiles to himself, eyes tracing over DeMar’s face, just appreciating what he is holding. “The first time you fucked me.”

“Why then?” he asks, kissing down the line of Kyle’s ribcage. Kyle shivers at the delicate touch and shrugs. 

“I think that was the first time I really saw all of you.” DeMar hums, still preoccupied with kissing down Kyle’s body. “When did you fall in love with me?” Kyle asks, embarrassed by the question but needing the answer to make this all feel real.

DeMar smiles up at Kyle from between Kyle’s legs, eyes shining with an emotion that Kyle couldn’t name if he tried. He is overcome with love, he thinks it must be impossible to feel this full. “I’ve been waiting for you my whole life, Kyle. Forever.” And with that, he puts his mouth on Kyle and they don’t say much for hours.

That night Kyle doesn’t dream because he doesn’t need to.

**Author's Note:**

> I am in awe of the devastatingly beautiful fics written by the talented people in this fandom which have provided me both joy and pain in equal measures. I wanted to return the favor in some small way, so this fic is that meager attempt. I hope it didn't disappoint too much.
> 
> I am posting this for Ava, without whom this fic would never have even been started, let alone finished. I promised it to her a long time ago, so this is me fulfilling that promise. I hope you don’t hate it. Thank you for your unwavering support and your encouragement. I love you!
> 
> For your viewing pleasure:  
[here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VUjraY7e4xY&t=60s) is first interview mentioned.
> 
> [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RMsG9HysnC8) is the second.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at damianslillard if you want to come talk sports!


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